


The Cost of Living

by Whisper132



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper132/pseuds/Whisper132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU written for the prompt: Stiles is a juvenile delinquent/prostitute, Peter is the dirty cop who looks the other way in exchange for "favors"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Teen Wolf Kink Meme](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/2408.html?thread=71016#t71016) on LJ.

The corner of 3rd and Valiant was prime real estate. Everyone in town knew the services offered by the boys that loitered around the abandoned lot across from the Mobil station at night, and the guy who stood next to the street light could rake in easy cash from passing cars that would slow down just long enough for him to hop in. That was, of course, providing the car he jumped into wasn't an unmarked police car enacting the mayor's new Clean Up the Night program. 

Stiles arrived to find some new kid in his spot. The regulars knew better than to take first dibs at the light. Stiles had been on the corner the longest, and he reserved the right to first pick of the night's johns. It was Thursday night, though, and Stiles would only be taking blowjob work. Officer Hale hated it when Stiles' ass was stretched out beforehand. He said Stiles was the tightest on the block, and that was the only reason the officer hadn't cuffed him (to something other than a motel bed) and dragged him into the station. The loss of cash for half a night's pickups was worth it if Stiles didn't have to worry about the police closing him down. He'd been locked up before, and he was never going back. Never.

"Did you check out hotpants over there? He must've spent a fortune on that shiny shit." Danny, the second highest earner on the corner, indicated the spot stealer with a crook of his thumb. "Might as well have 'Arrest me!' tattooed under that midriff top."

Stiles laughed. "He's probably a club kid, thinks he can get by in the big, scary world without mom and dad." Stiles would've given a lot to be that kind of kid at one point. "The only guys who'd pick him up are first time dopes and cops."

"I wonder how mommy and daddy will react to that." 

Stiles shrugged. It wasn't his problem. "Who's working down The Row tonight?"

Danny looked around them. "I think Isaac's down there. He's been making good money off that wasted rich kid. Too bad all of us can't make a grand that easy."

"Yeah, well, that kind of money doesn't stay around long." Stiles pulled out his watch and checked the time. It was 8:37, still too early for easy, drunk money to come stumbling out of the club. Still, if he wanted to pay the bills, he needed to get a few jobs in before his appointment that night. "I'm heading down there. Keep an eye on junior, but stay away from the corner tonight. I've got a feeling." He had more than a feeling; he had a guarantee, but he wasn't about to spill his Thursday secret to anyone. The deal was off if people found out, and Stiles couldn't afford that.

Danny nodded then took to scanning the street. The real money wouldn't be out until after midnight, but there was still some business to be had if you could tempt the curious over for a chat. Danny was a master at getting shy kids with extra cash to give in to their curiosity. Stiles often told him he should write a book. _Seducing Vanilla Boys for Dummies_ probably wouldn't have a huge readership but, in their corner of town, it would be an invaluable resource.

"Stay safe," Stiles told his somewhat friend before hoofing it toward the club.

*****

The Row looked as it usually did: disgusting. Used condoms and wads of soiled paper littered the ground with a used syringe here or there for flavor. A few men were getting serviced, either for cash or camaraderie, against the grimy walls, but Stiles couldn't see anyone waiting with bills out. He could venture into the club, itself, and try for a pickup, but that was tricky. The owner of the club was willing to turn a blind eye every now and then but wouldn't hesitate to call the cops if word got out that his place was overrun with whores. Stiles left the club's interior for truly desperate days.

A shuffling sound caught Stiles' attention and he turned toward the side door as it creaked closed. A man stumbled out, one hand fishing in his back pocket, the other already working at his zipper. "You," he said, waving some bills. "How much?"

Stiles walked up and didn't even flinch at the liquor stench that surrounded the man. "What're you looking for?" He'd learned long ago that you didn't name your price until you'd finished negotiating service. 

The man snorted and shook the bills in his hand. "Just get me off and make it quick."

In the dim light, Stiles could make out a couple of hundreds in amongst the ones and tens in the guy's hand. He likely just grabbed everything in his pocket. Once the liquor wore off, he would probably regret it. By then, Stiles and the guy's cash would be long gone. 

"Fine." Stiles snatched the money and slipped it into his back pocket. He reached into his front left and pulled out a flavored condom. This week was strawberry even though it tasted nothing like actual strawberries. He preferred peppermint, but the CVS was out so he had to make do for a week or so, depending on how business went. 

He slid the rubber onto the guy with practiced ease, keeping an eye out for other potential customers. From the look of him, the john wouldn't last too long once Stiles started using his technique. It didn't take much to make a guy come, really. There was actually a good deal of science in the art of sucking a guy off. In his first few months on the street, Stiles experimented until he found the perfect combination of suck, slide, and twist to get his customers where they needed to go in the quickest amount of time and with the least effort on his part. 

"Yeah, just like that."

Stiles rolled his eyes. The talkers were the worst. His Thursday appointment was a talker, too. 

While the guy in front of him started swaying on wobbly knees, Stiles went over the month's earnings again, trying to figure out how he'd managed to come up short. He hadn't been wanting for customers but, now that he thought about it, the jobs were mostly of the blow variety and less for the full course. If he didn't get some better work, he might have to look into other avenues of revenue. There were guys around town into some really demented shit, and Stiles had kept clear of them, but if he had to, he'd—

"Ngh!"

Stiles quickly pulled himself off his customer, gave a quick salute, and stepped away. Some guys had cute little parting sayings they gave. Stiles used to have one, too, but the novelty wore off after a few hundred times. Besides, the drunk probably wouldn't even remember Stiles' face…if he'd ever really seen it. He _would_ remember how he stupidly handed over about four hundred bucks to someone in an alleyway, and that would probably be enough to keep him out of The Row for at least a few months. Repeat business was worth Stiles' wit. One offs were worth the cash they gave and nothing more.

"Hey, kid. How much?"

Stiles turned toward his next customer, an older looking guy. Maybe he should turn him down. Judging from the wrinkles and sweaty shine of his head, the guy would take forever to get off, making him Stiles' last customer for the night.

"I'm done for the night," he told the guy.

The walking artifact moved closer with what looked to be the shattered remains of a strut he probably perfected in his twenties. Like his hair line and the sagging skin under his chin, the walk now jiggled a bit and fell short in embarrassing ways. "You're a hot number," the guy said. "I'll make it worth your while."

Stiles did some quick math to figure what he needed to keep his life afloat another month. "Five hundred and sixty," he said, knowing only an idiot would pay that much for a blowjob in an alley. Five hundred bucks could buy a man a week's worth of ass.

The saggy skin on a stick let his eyes roll up and down Stiles' body. He seemed to find jeans soiled at the knees and an unlaundered t-shirt supremely hot. "Give me that pretty little mouth," he said. "Daddy wants you to suck him down."

Stiles put his hand out. "Cash first, and I don't call anyone Daddy. You want that, you can go somewhere else."

The man took his wallet out, handed Stiles the requested bills, and unzipped. "Now give Daddy what he wants." He cupped his cock and lifted it toward Stiles.

A deep breath, another not-really-strawberry flavored condom, and Stiles was able to suck on the sick geezer knowing that his life wouldn't unravel any further for another 30 days.

*****

Stiles looked up at the flickering sign of the Comfort Inn. He often thought the old bastard chose the location just for its not so subtle irony. Stiles had used the place for business a few times, but the rates were too high even if the beds were more comfortable and the nice guy who ran it never complained when Stiles slept past proper checkout time. The Motel 6, though run by assholes, was ten bucks cheaper.

"You're late," a voice called from the bathroom when Stiles entered room 307. As far as he knew, the room never had any occupants except for Officer Peter Hale. Their arrangement was going on a year and a half, and they'd never used a different room.

"The last guy took longer than I thought he would." Stiles dropped his clothes into a chair and went to the bathroom to shower. "He was about your age. Pretty soon you'll have trouble getting it up, too, I bet." Stiles eyed Peter in the mirror while turning on the hot water. The man was hardly as old as Stiles liked to pretend he was. Still, a base part of him always curled in revulsion when he thought about how he had weekly sex with a man that was twice his age for no monetary compensation.

"That will never happen," Peter said, accentuating with a flick of shaving cream off his straight blade. "And, if it does, I'll assume it's your fault and lock you up."

"I'm clean. You know that…unless that old man forgetfulness is creeping up on you." Monthly tests were part of the deal but, if Peter didn't mandate them, Stiles probably wouldn't bother. Ignorance was bliss as far as he was concerned. Besides, if someone was stupid enough to buy his sex from a kid on a street corner, he deserved whatever he got. He supposed people would say the same about the kid selling himself on the corner and, honestly, Stiles couldn't argue.

Damn, the crazy bastard was making him think about depressing shit again.

"Don't take too long. I've got paperwork to do." 

Stiles grinned and hopped into the shower, leaving the curtain open because he knew Peter liked to watch. "Let me guess, a kid in red shorts that ran away from home?"

Peter reclined against the counter. "Friend of yours?"

"He was in my spot." Casting an eye to where Peter was rubbing himself through his uniform slacks, Stiles pumped extra body wash from the wall mounted dispenser and lathered it up in his hands. "His parents come with their bags full of money to spring him?"

Peter laughed. "That they did. His mother even cried. I was touched."

"I'll bet." As far as Stiles knew, Office Peter Hale's heart was a black, shriveled lump whose only function was to reroute all emotional impulses to his groin. If something got him off, Peter liked it. If it didn't, Peter could care less. It explained why the man wasn't above bartering with an underage hooker for regular sex…not that he should need to pay. On the club scene the man might be an antique, but normal people would be all over him and his hard body.

Whatever. Stiles had a job to do, and the sooner it was done, the sooner he could take a nap or, better, get his ass out there and score another job before the sleazy working men returned to their wives or their empty townhomes. He let his lathered hands roam across his body, making sure every crevice smelled of cheap complimentary soap. He threw in a few theatrical moans and gasps because Peter liked the soundtrack even though they both knew what a dub job it was.

By the time Stiles was clean to Peter's standards, the officer had shucked his clothes and was slowly stroking himself. "On the bed. Hands and knees," Peter said once Stiles had dried off. Stiles hung up his towel and, with a shake of his ass in Peter's direction, left the bathroom.

"You know," Stiles said once Peter joined him on the bed, "I bet there's a lot of people down at the station who'd be really happy to know you're blackmailing a kid into letting you fuck him." 

Peter slipped on a condom and reached into the stand beside the bed. A bottle of lube sat in its customary position next to the Gideon Bible. Peter started slicking himself. "If you're going to threaten me, at least put some thought into it." He smacked Stiles' upturned ass and slid in, no preparation and no warning. "Besides, if you honestly thought that would work, you'd have done it by now."

Stiles winced at the second slap, which landed harder than the first. "No bruising the merchandise," he grumbled, turning back to glare at Peter's smug face. 

Peter hummed and smacked the other cheek, though his hand landed lighter this time. "Your skin's so pale, you probably mark beautifully. I don't know why I haven't thought about it in all this time."

Stiles dropped his front half down and reached for a pillow. "Just come already."

Just because he was an ass, Peter's strokes slowed down. "Are you implying that you're not enjoying yourself?" His hand snaked down to curl around Stiles' soft dick. "What a shame. Perhaps we can try something else that may be more to your liking."

"No, thanks. I'm more the fuck and run type." In the year and a half he'd been subjecting himself to Peter, Stiles had never gotten off on anything the other man did to him. He'd come close a few times, but self-control and a stubborn streak stronger than any of his other impulses kept the rush at bay until he could deal with things quietly in a public bathroom or, even better, on the face or chest of one of the few club freaks who got off on that sort of thing. The pay on the latter wasn't anything to write home about, usually a barter deal for a meal at a diner, but something was better than nothing.

"Hands above your head," Peter said. Stiles complied and, a moment later, Peter slid out of him and the bed creaked. Stiles didn't bother looking back. There was only one reason he needed to put his hands above his head. It was going to be a long, boring night. "I think I'll keep you this way tonight," Peter chuckled after returning with two sets of handcuffs and jingling them next to Stiles' ear. "Or," he whispered and clipped one cuff around Stiles' right wrist, "perhaps I'll let you go if you can show me just how much you love this."

"Yeah, this is fantastic. Oh, Officer Hale, you get me so hot. How could a lowly whore like me not fall at your feet, worship your endowment, and swoon every time you bind me to a motel bed of questionable hygiene? Mmm. Bacteria are so sexy." Stiles congratulated himself on not cracking up during his monologue and not wincing when Peter tightened the cuff on his left wrist a bit more than usual. "I said no bruising, asshole. If you cost me customers, I'm outing your ass."

Peter looped a chain around the headboard and clipped the loose end of both pairs of cuffs to it. "We both know that was a bravely told lie, Stiles. You can't afford another run in juvie, not after what happened the last time." He ran a finger down the length of Stiles' spine. "That big mouth of yours really only impresses the customers. The gangbangers didn't find it so pleasant, I hear." He leaned down and licked the shell of Stiles' ear. "You're lucky you've got me to watch out for you, or you'd be on the floor, naked, with who knows what up your ass. I'm amazed you didn't get any diseases." 

"Why are you stalling? Having trouble getting the motor started, officer? They've got pills for that, you know. I know a guy who can get some for you really cheap." If Stiles didn't get Peter back on track, it would take forever for Peter to let him go. Once, when Peter was in a mood, he fell asleep with his dick still in and Stiles' wrists still chained up. Stiles had a cramp in his shoulders for a few days and a customer actually complained that his ass was too loose the next day. A guy's business could be ruined if rumors started spreading that his hole had lost its spring. 

"I've got a treat for you tonight." Peter tapped Stiles' ass and moved off the bed again. Stiles twisted and watched him go to his bag. "I've got paperwork to do, so I'll let this warm you up a bit," he said, taking a vibrating egg out. Next, he took out his laptop and started it up. "You're going to be screaming for my cock before the night's over."

Yeah, that would never happen. Stiles might scream about what a dick Peter was, but he'd never honestly beg for a fucking; he had too little regard for the act to ever think it worth begging for. Still, Stiles knew how to say the things his customers wanted and, if Peter thought Stiles' well executed lines were actual begging, Stiles would be okay with that. Things like pride and shame had left him a long, long time ago. "I want it already," Stiles groaned, wiggling his hips and shaking his legs as though to grab onto Peter and reel him in.

Peter came to the bed and slid the egg into Stiles. He turned it on high and went back to his laptop. "Be a good boy and stay put until I've finished my work. After that, we'll play."

Stiles sighed and slumped onto the bed. The buzzing in his ass was kind of annoying, and the quick clacking of keys was just another dose of noise that kept him from taking a much needed nap. Still, he managed to slip into a light doze after running through his finances one last time.

*****

In his dream, Stiles floated upon an ocean of money like Scrooge McDuck. The gold coins carried him gently under a warm sun, and every now and then a bill would float up, tickle his sides, then sink back under the shiny surface. One particularly cheeky bill rubbed against his inner thigh before curling around his dick, rustling around it with whisper light touches. This was the life.

He let the sun's warmth sink into him, fill him from head to toe with glorious heat so different from the cold nights he spent in the abandoned house in the woods that had become the squatting paradise for runaway youth and other members of society's dung heap. 

The bill curled tighter around him and seemed to elongate, tickling his hole before pushing inside. Coins rushed to fill him, flipping and turning inside, pressing hard against him until all he could do was grunt out his release.

"That's a good boy." Peter's voice shattered Stiles' dream and dragged his consciousness, kicking and screaming, back into reality.

In the time that Stiles had slept, Peter had unchained him, flipped him, and redone his bonds. Stiles curled up then slammed his head back down, disgusted by the spray of come on himself and Peter's smug smile as he trailed his fingers through the mess.

"Are we done?" Stiles asked, pulling at his restraints. 

"Hardly," Peter laughed. He grabbed Stiles' ankles and pushed them up out of his way before shoving in. 

Stiles sighed and stared at the ceiling while Peter fucked him hard enough to rattle the bed against the wall and disturb the entire zip code. A glance at the bedside alarm told Stiles he wouldn't have time for any more customers that night, and he was pretty sure he'd be too friction sore for anything the next day. It looked like Friday would be an errand day.

*****

If Stiles' life ever started to resemble something normal, he'd sit down and write a memoir of his life. He'd call it _A Kaleidoscope of Assholes_ , and the cover would be a picture of an anus composed of a collage of photos. Peter's face would be at the very center.

Stiles had been hurt worse in his life—been paid for it, actually—but that didn't lessen the bruising feeling in his ass from where Peter smacked him over and over, demanding Stiles "sing" for him. Neither Stiles' rendition of "The Macarena" nor the Oscar Meyer Weiner song were the singing Peter had in mind, apparently, because the stinging in Stiles' ass started to spread to the backs of his thighs after a while. 

"Hello, Stiles," the receptionist at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital greeted, waving to him.

"Hey, Karen." He waved back and turned down the hall toward the administrative wing. The tiles below his feet were a cheerfully bleached white, and the walls were a placid seafoam. It was the perfect visualization of that moment before you tipped over the edge of nausea and into full-on vomiting. 

Some of the workers nodded to him, but nobody stopped to speak, especially the one or two Stiles had seen under different lighting and in much less sterile environs. How many of the young interns' lives could Stiles ruin, he wondered.

"I'm here to make a payment," Stiles said once he reached the Accounts Payable desk. "Stilinski." He handed over a medical card.

Darren, the guy manning the desk, didn't say anything, just rolled his chair back toward a wall of files and pulled out what he needed before sliding back. The guy had made a pass at Stiles once, and Stiles turned him down not due to disinterest (though there was also that), but because Darren was young and innocent and wouldn't understand the kind of things a guy had to do to survive. All Darren knew was that Stiles showed up near the end of the month and handed over a wad of cash, got a receipt, then trudged down the hall. Maybe he knew the room Stiles went to, and maybe he knew why, but he had no idea where the bills he neatly placed into the till had come from. Stiles was betting he'd be wearing gloves if he did.

"There's a notice in your file," Darren said, handing Stiles an envelope along with his receipt. "Have a nice day, sir."

"Thanks." Stiles opened the envelope as he walked across to the other end of the hospital and boarded an elevator. "Fuck," he sighed. The damn rates were going up. The notice claimed higher power rates were to blame. Stiles was sure it was because fate hated him.

Oh well. There wasn't anything he could do but pay the bills. There wasn't any other option, not for him.

The elevator opened up onto the fourth floor and Stiles stepped out. He shoved the notice into his pocket and straightened up his posture. He had 30 days until the next payment was due, and that was plenty of time. He'd have to cut out the day, sometimes two, he took off a week for recovery and maybe think about taking a few of the more unsavory customers to get the extra $700 he needed a month, but he'd do it. 

"Hey, Dad," he called as he entered room 417. "How's it goin'?"

The beep of a heart monitor and the whir of a respirator answered him.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles awoke on a Thursday morning to find that a slight tickle in the back of his throat had morphed into a solid mucus blockade in the entirety of his head with a small band of rebels marching toward his lungs. 

"Great," he sighed up at the moldy ceiling of the abandoned house he shared with the other homeless youth. Nobody wanted to hire a guy to suck their dick if snot was drizzling out his nose at random intervals. Besides, he wouldn't be able to do a decent job of it when he could barely breathe without his only open airway being shoved full of flesh. Stiles had learned to stomach a lot of stuff, but asphyxiation wasn't something he was willing to mess around with.

He looked at his watch, one of the last vestiges of a life long past, and groaned. If he took off two or three days for recovery, he might be okay. If the cold lasted any longer, he'd be in serious trouble. 

"Hey, you look like shit." Danny's foot tapped Stiles' shoulder. "I've got some Dayquil and Nyquil if you want it."

"Expired?"

"Only about a month or so. The CVS trashed a whole lot of it so I grabbed it." Danny shrugged. "Better than nothing." He tapped Stiles again. "You want it or not? I've got stuff to do today."

"Yeah, I'll take it. How much you got?" Stiles looked at his watch again. It was only 2:30. He could sleep for a while before heading for his appointment. With any luck, Peter would take one look at his snot-crusted nose and kick him out of the room.

"I've got a few boxes. You can have one." Danny looked around at the vacant pallets around them. "Don't let on, though."

"My mouth's shut," Stiles promised. If any of the other guys knew Danny was holding any kind of meds, they'd hound him until he gave them up. Any kind of chemical was a circus for some of the guys who shared the house, and neither Stiles nor Danny would be able to fend them off if they banded together and decided to take the precious medication. "Thanks, man."

Danny shrugged and went off to get the medicine, returning a moment later to drop it by Stiles' ratty blankets. "See ya tomorrow."

"Yeah," Stiles managed while hefting himself up to reach his backpack and the water bottle in it. He downed two Nyquil, set the alarm on his watch, and fell back onto his pillow.

******

Stiles slept through his watch alarm and only woke up because the beeping pissed off another squatter and he kicked Stiles in irritation. The kick wasn't hard—nothing to warrant the kind of bloody retribution of which Stiles was capable—but it served to piss Stiles off just enough that he was tempted to skip dealing with Peter and go back to bed. It was only his sense of self preservation and a perverse muscle memory that finally pulled him from his blankets and moved his ass across town to the Comfort Inn, whose sign he gave the finger as he passed.

"You're late," Peter said when Stiles came in, locking the door behind him.

Stiles snorted up some mucus in reply and trudged toward the bathroom. The only positive thing he could think of on the way over was the hot shower waiting for him and the possibility that the steam might help him hack out another pound of phlegm. He also planned to take all the tissues and toilet paper back with him, maybe a hand towel, too.

"Well," Stiles told his reflection in the fogging mirror. "You've had worse days." As if to reply, mucus trailed down the back of his throat, sending him into a coughing fit that left him breathless and dizzy. "Great," he sighed, moving to test the water, "even my damn cold is a smartass."

"Are you going to shower, or are you going to banter at yourself like a crazy person?" Peter slid into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a towel, and Stiles was fairly certain the towel was there so Peter could play at being sexy while removing it and Stiles could pretend to be impressed.

Stiles stepped into the tub, hand on the curtain. "Which do you find the least fuckable?" He closed the curtain. "Whichever it is, that's my answer."

In the ten seconds before Peter ripped the curtain open, Stiles knew Heaven.

"Both options have a touch of fantasy to them," Peter laughed, reaching out to run a hand down Stiles' side. "I do love a naughty, wet boy, but I'm certain I'd find uses for your blabbering tongue." He delivered a smack to one round buttock. "Or maybe I'll be getting the best of both worlds tonight."

Stiles had come up with a lot of theories as to why Peter was the fucked up specimen of humanity that he was. None of them, not even the ones involving extraterrestrial impregnation and experimental gamma radiation, ever seemed able to fully account for the depth of disgusting to which the officer rejoiced in delving.

Stiles snorted a ball of mucus out of his sinuses and spat it out toward the water running down the drain. "Oh yeah," he said to Peter in a voice frayed on the edges from coughing, "I can't wait to slick you up with snot and slobber. Oh, officer, you really know how to turn a guy on." He fell into a coughing fit so strong he had to brace himself on the wall to keep from falling. "Seriously, let's just get it over with."

Peter hummed in thought. "I'm going for a little something. When I get back, I expect you on the bed."

Stiles yanked the shower curtain closed as soon as Peter stepped back. Turning up the heat, he let himself be cocooned in glorious sinus-clearing steam. If there was any justice in the world, someone would rob something and Peter would be called into work, allowing Stiles the luxury of a night with a bed. 

"At least you're getting the shower," he said to the off-white tiles. And maybe, if there was some remnant of justice still afloat in the world, Peter would catch Stiles' cold and cancel a night. Thursdays were busy days down on the corner, and Stiles was missing good income to barter for Peter's protection. 

All of that was later, though. The present—a hot shower and a semi-functional mattress to fall upon for a few minutes—was far more important.

*****

"Like that, huh?"

For once, Stiles was unsure how to respond to Peter's chatter. On the one hand, Peter's dick in his ass was just as uncomfortable as ever. On the other, the Vap-O-Rub Peter was rubbing over him was perhaps the best thing he'd felt in the last three years. The heat of Peter's hands was disturbingly soothing, and the menthol allowed Stiles to take in enough air that, were he so inclined, he could respond to Peter's idiocy with actual words instead of disgruntled wheezes.

Suddenly, Peter slid out and moved around until he was sitting against the battered plank of wood nailed to the wall that passed for a headrest. Stiles sighed and got to his knees, assuming they were going to play a game of ride the imbecile. 

"Sit here," Peter said, gesturing between his spread legs. "Back to me."

"Please tell me we're not going to cuddle." Stiles couldn't tell if what made him cough was adventurous mucus or rising bile. Despite his complaints, Stiles did as instructed. He'd done the congenial boyfriend act before; he could do it again. He deserved an Oscar in Fuck Fakery for putting up with this, though.

As soon as Stiles' back impacted with Peter's chest, Peter reached for the container of Vap-o-Rub. "Touch yourself," he whispered into Stiles' ear then spread more ointment across Stiles' chest.

"You really do have some sort of freakish invalid fetish, don't you?" Stiles took in a deep breath of menthol and moved his right hand vaguely toward his inner thigh. "I know a guy who knows a guy who could probably get you into a nursing home or something. I bet there's a few guys there who'd love a chance at your cock. You could do a good deed and give an old timer a final thrill."

Peter's nails dug into one of Stiles' nipples. "How about this instead? Be a good boy and you'll have a nice bed to sleep in until you're better. Keep running your mouth and I'll drill you so deep you can't walk then drag you into the station naked."

Stiles knew Peter was mostly talk, but there was a small flutter in the officer's voice that made Stiles wonder if Peter's true fantasy wasn't the latter of the two options. Not wanting to find out, he closed his eyes and grabbed onto his dick, praying that the once more soothing hands and thrill of oxygen to his groggy brain would be enough to get him where his body really had no interest in going.

"I think we need to discuss our contract," Stiles said. "We agreed that you'd get to bang me once a week to keep your mouth shut. I think you're not living up to the spirit of the bargain."

Peter reached a hand down and rubbed across Stiles' ass. "That's just a half-assed way to say you want me inside you, isn't it?" Peter slid a finger down Stiles' crease until the mattress hindered its progress. "You'll need to ask for what you want a little more clearly."

"You get one hour, tops, and only vanilla. Anything else you've got to pay for. That clear enough for you?" Stiles tried to turn and glare, but Peter's hand on his chest kept him in place against the larger man's chest.

Peter nuzzled against Stiles' ear. "If you think you're in a position to make demands, I'll be happy to give you a little taste of the real world." His nails dug into Stiles' nipple and pulled, the ointment stinging as it impacted with the damaged flesh. "I could start with that dopey faced kid I see hanging around you. Is he legal? Think he'd enjoy spending some time dressed down and locked up?" One of Peter's hands moved to cover Stiles' motionless one. "I didn't tell you to stop."

"There are not enough adjectives to describe how messed up you are," Stiles hissed. 

"You say that like it matters. Now move." Peter's hand dragged Stiles' along his wilted length. "All you have to do is everything I say. That's not so hard is it?"

"How am I supposed to get off with a psychopath in the room?"

Peter's teeth scraped at Stiles' neck. "You're a professional. I'm sure you'll manage." 

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to think of something sexy. His mind raced through various bits of pornography, kinky stories he'd heard, and a few underwear ads he'd seen in a discarded Sunday paper. None of it was able to distract him from the heated huff of Peter's breath at his nape. Not even Peter's return to the soft, medicated caresses across Stiles' chest would calm the cold terror flipping in Stiles' stomach.

"Don't worry," Peter whispered. "I've got all night."

*****

Stiles floated in and out of sleep for three days inside the motel room. Each day, the cleaning staff came and offered him pity meals, speaking at him in soothing Spanish that he didn't understand. In the small waves of lucidity between doses of Nyquil, he ate the stale deli sandwiches they offered him and gulped down generic sports drinks. On the morning of the fourth day, his limbs had enough oomph in them to get him from the bed to the shower, where he stood under the spray for a good half hour before stumbling back to bed for fits of slightly more pleasant, slightly less mucusy sleep.

On the fifth day, he gathered his things up at around noon and returned to the abandoned house.

"You're alive," Danny commented from his pallet. "We thought you'd gotten picked up or something. It's been hell out there this week."

"Oh?" Stiles looked around and finally found his bed setup pushed against a wall. It didn't look like anyone had stolen anything, but he'd do a proper check later.

"They raided our spots, locked up about half the crew." Danny scratched his stomach and yawned. "I've been cooling it here until they move on to the next spot."

Great, just what Stiles needed when he was already behind for the month. "Guess it's a laundry night," he grumbled, moving his things back into position and kicking away a pile that belonged to Buzz, a dealer who'd started squatting in the house two months ago. The ass should've known better than to move in on his space after less than a week. "I have some leftover stuff if you want it back."

Danny waved a hand. "Keep it. I've still got enough." He checked the battered watch sitting next to his water bottle. "I'm heading down to the rec center for a shower before it closes. I'll scout around tonight and let you know if the coast is clear."

"Want me to throw anything in with my stuff? I don't have enough for a full load." Stiles was offering because Danny did the same a few weeks ago. 

"Nah, I'm good. I did some yesterday."

"I won't be going out until 2 or 3, so you've got time to reconsider if someone spills something on you…or throws up on you." The sad part was that he couldn't even laugh while he said it because it happened to them far too often. Sometimes all orgasms did for drunk guys was encourage the booze back up and out, and sometimes a really twisted John had a fetish he'd pay a lot for. Money was money.

Stiles gave Danny a wave and settled into his pallet for a little more rest before hitting the 24 hour laundry.

***** 

"We received a call from a delightful elderly woman that a possible gang banger was loitering here," Peter chuckled as he walked into the Spin Thrifty Laundry Mat and closed the door. 

"Well," Stiles said with a grimace, "I've done some gangbangs and I've done some gang bangers, but I'm really only interested in laundry today." He continued to transfer his clothes to the dryer. "Go tell the crazy lady to get some glasses and stop watching reality TV."

"You're looking a good deal more spry since last we met."

"And you still look like a Viagra test candidate. Are we done here?" Stiles waved a moist t-shirt. "I'm busy."

"Eager to get out on the town so you can get cuffed up?" 

Stiles ignored the comment and put the last of his clothes in the washer. Now, he could either do the regular time and use the hand blower in the bathroom to finish the job, or he could spend the extra buck for an extended dry and have wonderfully warm clothes to use as a heated blanket while he slept that night.

"It might interest you to know that I am well acquainted with the officer in charge of the raid on your block." Peter leaned against a row of washers, thumbs sliding over his belt. 

"Here we go," Stiles sighed. He opted for the extended dry and made a mental note to see if he could sneak into the free laundry facility in the ritzy new apartment complex that just went up near the Vons. "What do you want, and can we get it over with before the dryer goes off?"

"I was simply going to say that, for the proper incentive, I might be able to convince my dear friend to point his detectives in a different direction." Some people would pay to watch Peter rub at himself while clad in his uniform. If Stiles had a camera and a computer, he'd be able to make some good cash off the crooked cop.

"Over with before the dryer goes off," Stiles repeated. He looked around. "Bathroom?" He pointed toward the scratched up door at the back of the laundry mat.

Peter started walking but took a turn after a row of tall dryers. "We won't be able to hear the dryer go off," he said when Stiles stopped walking and scowled, unimpressed. 

Stiles wanted to point out that a security camera could easily catch them, but the security cameras at the Spend Thrifty had been smashed up years ago, and the owners never replaced them. Sighing, he pulled the ever-present condom from his back pocket. "Just hurry it up." He dropped his clothes to mid-thigh and leaned against a dryer, bent low enough so that he wouldn't be seen by passersby…assuming anyone but obnoxious old biddies were awake at 2:30 and interested in doing some laundry.

Peter unzipped and rolled the condom on. "The big, bad detectives will be gone by noon tomorrow." He spit and rubbed it over the condom before pushing in.

Stiles winced but hid it in his folded arms. If Peter saw, it'd probably just excite the bastard more. "So far we've covered your invalid fetish and your public sex fetish. Any more surprises you're going to throw at me?"

Peter moved in short thrusts, his hips moving but his upper half remaining comparatively still. From the other side, it probably looked like he was futzing with his laundry in the machine. Stiles wondered if Officer Hale had practiced the maneuver a lot.

"I'm full of surprises," Peter grunted. 

"You're full of something," Stiles mumbled to the dryer. "You done yet?"

"Have patience. Savor the moment." Peter slipped his hand along the line of Stiles' spine and under his shirt. "Tilt your ass up more."

"How, exactly, do you expect me to do that?"

Peter made a noise like a growl. "Just do it."

Stiles managed to arch his back a millimeter more. 

"Yes," Peter hissed. "Like that." His pace increased and soon Stiles was bracing himself against the dryer to keep himself from being snapped in half. The dryer, itself, shook with the force of their movement. Peter came with a deep, low exhalation and abruptly released Stiles.

"Warn a guy," Stiles snapped after he barely kept his face from colliding with the floor.

"Tomorrow by noon," Peter said. He zipped up, straightened his uniform, and left. Stiles replaced his own clothes and sat on a bench to read a magazine while his dryer finished. Tomorrow he had a lot of work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles looked over his pile of cash one more time before stuffing it back into an envelope. He was $823 short with a touch less than 48 hours to get the cash. And, to make matters worse, it was Thursday. He had to waste a night entertaining a crazy cop when he could be out making money.

"You need a loan?" Danny asked, pointing to Stiles' envelope. 

"I'll figure something out." Borrowing would just put him in the negative for the next month. The hospital occasionally gave him a week or so grace period when he was a bit short. If he begged them nicely and gave them what he had, maybe they'd give him some more time this month. 

"I saw some of the jobs you took this week." Danny shook his head in what could only have been pity. "I don't know how you're able to walk at all right now."

Stiles was able to walk because he had to. He didn't think about the welts on his legs or the fire that burned inside him 24 hours a day because a group of assholes ran out of lube and kept at it anyway. He didn't dwell on the whips, chains, and cattle prods. He didn't have time. 

"I'm fine," Stiles told Danny. 

"Like I said, I can lend you a bit if you—"

"I'm fine." Stiles' tone was a bit stronger this time, and Danny shrugged and went about cleaning up his blankets. 

"You have your appointment tonight?" Danny asked after the last blanket was folded.

"Yeah."

"You sound thrilled."

"Absolutely. See this?" Stiles pointed to his head. "This is my overjoyed face."

Danny laughed. "I'm heading out. Be safe."

"You, too." Stiles watched Danny go, nodded to a few of the incoming squatters, and started cleaning up his area. He was tempted to just collapse back down, huddle into his blankets, and hide for a few days before hopping a bus to anywhere else on the planet. He didn't want to walk into the hospital and listen to the doctors tell him he was waiting for the impossible. He didn't want to phone the insurance company and tell them that they were right to stop covering the life support because Sherriff Stilinski was never going to wake up and he had finally seen the light. 

"Get your ass going," he grumbled to himself, shaking off the nausea born from stress. As he moved, his ass ached and burned in protest. His arms weren't happy, either, but all of his limbs still worked, and they dutifully carried him out of the house and toward the heart of town for another night of quick work before meeting Peter.

*****

"You're late." 

Stiles didn't bother snarking back at Peter. He stomped through the room and into the shower, closing and locking the door behind him. If it pissed Peter off then oh well; Stiles was in no mood to deal with anything at the moment. He'd barely broken $100 before he had to leave to make the appointment, and all three jobs had been rougher than anything Peter's demented brain had thrown at him.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, staring into his own bloodshot eyes. No answers returned, but the longer he stared, the tighter his gut twisted. He _knew_ why he was doing it, and he'd keep on until a miracle came or he was used up and withered. His fear was that the latter was drawing closer and closer.

Stiles was surprised that Peter didn't try to knock down the door while he showered. He was able to bathe in quiet bliss without distraction and, when he left the bathroom, Peter was sitting on the bed, reading a pamphlet.

"What are you wearing?" Stiles asked, his eyes drawn to the red and black T-shirt Peter was sporting.

Peter stood and slowly spun. "As you know, I'm deeply concerned about our city's youth." He drew his fingers across the red D.A.R.E. logo before pinching a nipple through the shirt. "I want to make sure the young ones don't get seduced by the evils of our world." He moved his fingers further down and began to trail them along the sides of his zipper.

"Do you get your dick out to demonstrate those evils, or do you just woo them with your elegant words?" Stiles flopped down on the end of the bed. 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Peter unzipped and stepped out of his pants. "I consider it a privilege to volunteer my time in the hopes that I can encourage our young citizens to follow a path free from the sins of their elders." 

"It has nothing to do with sucking up so you can get promoted."

"Nothing whatsoever." Peter moved forward and cupped Stiles' chin in his free hand. "I leave the sucking to those skilled in the art."

"Classy."

"I have some spare workbooks in my briefcase if you'd like to take one home with you, perhaps think on the life of sin you've chosen." He ran a thumb over Stiles' bottom lip. "Or maybe you just want me to roll one up and spank you."

"There is something seriously, medically wrong with the way your brain works." Stiles shoved Peter's hand away. "Now let's get this over with. I don't have time to waste today."

"So it would seem." Peter grabbed Stiles' arm in an iron grip. "You're looking particularly used this evening. Now, is it just me or is the quality of the merchandise going down a bit these days?" He pressed Stiles down onto his back on the mattress, keeping him in place with a hand to the center of his chest. "I think a thorough inspection is in order."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Is this another one of your weird fantasy sex games? I think I made it abundantly clear that kinky crap is extra now."

"How much did this one get you?" Peter brought one of Stiles' wrists to his mouth and licked around a rope burn. 

"I haven't got a set price." Stiles tried and failed to free his wrist. "I've been thinking of standardizing the charges and building a website, but it's kinda hard when you're homeless. The internet connection on my imaginary computer's absolute crap."

Peter rewarded Stiles' sarcasm by biting down and leaving a set of teeth marks to decorate the burn around his wrist. It had kind of a tribal effect.

"I asked you a question." Peter's grip tightened.

Stiles held out until his fingers began to tingle. "Fifty bucks."

"You're cheap." Peter dropped Stiles' arm and picked up the other. He trailed his finger across a scratch that ran from elbow to shoulder. "And this one?"

"I'm not so graceful at hopping fences. I might have tetanus. You should take the safe route and just say no." Stiles punched the logo on Peter's t-shirt. 

"Or perhaps I should take this valuable opportunity to educate you so that you may return to the world a better person." The corner of Peter's mouth quirked up a moment before he licked his lips. "If you're an obedient student, there might even be a reward for you."

"Is it cookies? Did you bake?" 

"Hands over your head, fingers laced. If you move out of position, I'll fetch something to make it easier for you to remember." Peter pulled away and went toward a bag sitting on a chair. He took something out but kept it out of Stiles' line of sight.

"I'll remind you that you're wearing a shirt that compels you to resist drugs and violence." 

Peter snorted. "Your lifestyle choices don't fully align with our program, unfortunately. I'll have to design a special curriculum for you." Peter ran a hand along the inside of Stiles' thigh. 

"Let me guess; you're going to administer the dick in ass cure with a side of freakishly kinky crap."

"Oh, no." Peter slapped the thigh he was stroking. "I will promise you right now that no flesh will enter that ratty, stretched hole of yours this evening."

"Did you get hit by a flying swine tonight?" Stiles was only slightly nervous. He knew Peter probably wouldn't do anything too damaging, but the crazy bastard was far too creative. He might have pulled an alien from the suitcase and was intent on letting it wriggle up Stiles' nether regions. In a few months, Stiles might be servicing a customer while an alien baby tried to birth itself through his colon or, worse, some sort of mutant baby chamber that had grown, slowly and painfully, between his organs.

Peter tickled the arch of Stiles' foot. "Keep your mind on your lessons. There will be a test later."

"Seriously, your dialogue is so painfully porno it's killing me. Can we stop the extended metaphor and get on with it already?" Stiles kicked out when the tickling got to be too much. He was sad that Peter grabbed his ankle before his heel could impact with Peter's smug cock. Stiles wasn't even sure how a dick could look smug, but Peter's always seemed like it would be snorting at him in derision if it could. If a wizard came along that anthropomorphized sexual organs, Peter's dick would don leather pants and one of those tight button up shirts the rich queers bought to try to blend in with the club trash while still looking down their noses, and then he would smack himself against Stiles' ass and explain why he was lowering himself to pay for play goods instead of looking for something worthy of his attention. Stiles would probably punch him after that, possibly steal his wallet on the run out of whatever crappy hotel room the talking penis chose. On second thought, since Peter always seemed to think with his dick, the anthropomorphized penis might get them a better place, maybe even order room service.

Nails digging into his nipple drew Stiles out of his daydream. Peter clucked his tongue like an old woman. "Time to get to work." He leaned down, reaching for whatever he'd taken from his bag earlier. "Grab your knees. It's time to begin the inspection."

Stiles did as he was told, hooking his hands behind his knees so Peter could begin whatever depraved activity he had planned for Stiles' ass. Hopefully it would be quick and Peter wouldn't discover anything torn or infected. Stiles didn't feel anything wrong, but he was working on an unhealthy regimen of ibuprofen at the moment so he couldn't be sure he'd missed an injury in the last day or two.

Peter's finger ghosted over Stiles' hole but didn't dive in as it usually did. Instead, it widened its path until the glancing touch morphed into something like a massage. "It's a horrible shade of red," Peter said as he dug his fingers into the muscles of Stiles' ass. "Your hole isn't even closed all the way. It's just gaping at me like a doped up teenager."

"Funny. I thought you were into doped up teenagers." Stiles was not going to let on that Peter's hands were feeling kind of good and, really, they could go on like this all night. Well, not all night, but at least for a few more minutes.

"An officer of the law never condones drug use." Peter lunged forward, pressing himself between Stiles' knees until his shirt rubbed across Stiles' chest. "Just say no," he whispered before nipping at Stiles' shoulder and pulling away to continue his previous task. "As for teenagers—" he shrugged, "—emancipated youths are adults in the eyes of the law."

"Actually, I don't think they are." 

Something hard and cold pushed at Stiles' ass. Peter grinned. "It doesn't matter." 

Stiles tried to sit up a bit to see what Peter was sticking in him. When he caught sight of the handle to Peter's nightstick, he fell back again. "You're kidding me."

"Just relax and enjoy yourself." Peter ran a finger around the skin stretched open by the stick. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"I'll just bet you do." Stiles could just imagine Peter down in the city, smacking back rioters and then dragging one into an alley to have his way with him. "Hey. Put a condom on that thing."

Peter sighed and withdrew the nightstick. "You're lucky I'm in such an accommodating mood tonight." 

Stiles watched Peter remove a condom and slide it onto the end of the stick. "I'm not getting any diseases from you and your freak hobbies."

Peter slid the nightstick in further, giving it a wiggle when he had it in to his satisfaction. "Now tell me, is that any way to talk to a man who has nothing but your pleasure in mind?" Peter cupped Stiles' sac and massaged it. "Am I not being gentle and caring to a sad, tired boy? Am I not nurturing you back to your former streetwalking glory?"

"Fuck off."

"Oh, I do like it when you beg." 

Stiles didn't even bother to respond; he just focused on the ceiling, occasionally making the fake pleasure noises that never failed to make Peter think he was doing something right. There was an art to the noise. It was a quick gasp followed by a slowly released gurgle in the back of his throat. If the gasp was too strong or the gurgle too spitty, Peter caught on and started trying to make a point. The point was usually a long, chafing handjob until Stiles came and Peter gave a small speech highlighting his sexual prowess and the futility of any sort of resistance against it.

"It looks like you're starting to show some appreciation." Peter curled his hand around Stiles' dick which was, much to Stiles' horror, showing more signs of interest than it had given in the last year. Clearly a couple weeks in cages and clamps had skewed his anatomy's idea of what constituted pleasurable contact.

"You want a medal or something?" he asked Peter. "I bet we can go down to the library and make you a Cock Cuddling Certificate of Merit. We can even use a gold crayon to make it fancy for you." 

Peter chuckled and slid off the bed, leaving the stick firmly lodged up Stiles. "I'll take that to mean your mouth is feeling lonely."

Stiles smacked his head back against the mattress a few times. "Use the flavored ones at least. They're in my jeans." He should've known better than to think Peter would let the evening end without shoving himself into one of Stiles' orifices. At least Peter usually lost interest after getting off. If Stiles plied his trade properly, they could be done in about ten minutes and Stiles could get some work in.

"So eager. That must be why you've been so popular lately." Peter rolled a condom on and hopped onto the bed. "Now, how would you like to do this?"

"More cash and less talk? Alternately not at all." 

"Oh, I think I have a better idea." Peter settled himself over Stiles' face. His mint-coated cock tapped at Stiles' mouth. "Open wide now."

"Not that wide," Stiles grumbled before taking in a mouthful of latex. 

Long minutes passed while Peter humped Stiles' face and slid the stick in and out, sometimes pausing to smack at Stiles' ass or give his dick a few strokes. Stiles mainly focused on trying to breathe around the balls ramming into his nose. Finally, Peter gave one last, violent push at Stiles' face, grunted, and moved away.

"That was lovely," he said, patting Stiles' cheek. "Good boy."

"Is this where I pant and make dog noises, or can we just call it a night?" Stiles looked at the alarm clock tastefully glued and bolted onto the bedside stand. If he left now, he still had three hours of workable time left.

"Oh, were you under the impression that we were finished?" Peter slipped the nightstick out and made his way back to his bag. "This was just a warm-up."

Stiles gave one last look to the clock before closing his eyes. 

*******

Everything hurt. His eyes, his fingernails, his hair; there wasn't a part of him that wasn't screaming out in protest at the very chore of existing. Peter hadn't finished with him until morning light began peaking around the motel curtains and the officer had to don his uniform and begin his patrol, leaving Stiles on the bed, exhausted and crusted over with Peter's dry semen. 

Stiles wasn't sure what kind of magic was enchanting the duffel bag Peter'd brought with him, but the man managed to pull out an arsenal of toys and tortures from the bag, more than enough to stock a small adult store. There was no way Stiles would be able to do anything other than hobble along for a few days. No customers would want him once they saw the bruises on his arms or the marks Peter's ridiculously long nails left on his ass and thighs.

This was it, Stiles realized. This was the actual day his life descended into Hell and swallowed him up into a black abyss.

Groaning, he limped to the shower, washing away what soap and water could. His poetic mind wanted to turn up the water as hot as it could go, but his physical self would only let him get the water lukewarm before the scratches and scrapes shrieked at him to pull his shit together and get his head out of his ass. Breathing in deep, slow lungfuls, Stiles began to plan out his day. 

********

Stiles stood outside Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, watching people come in and out. He'd gone back to the squat, changed, counted his money to make sure he wasn't wrong, stared at a wall for a bit, and then dragged himself into town to do what needed to be done, what he probably should have done a year ago but was too damn stubborn to.

"This is it," he told his shaking hands and trembling heart. 

"Hello, Stiles," Karen greeted him as he entered. "Are you feeling better?"

Stiles paused in his walk past the reception desk. "What?"

"The nice gentleman who came in to visit your father today said you were feeling under the weather and we shouldn't expect you for a while." Old matronly eyes looked him over. "I'd say you should still be in bed."

"I'm…alright. Nice talking to you. I…gotta go." Legs protesting every step, Stiles ran through the hospital until he reached the Accounts Payable desk.

"May I help you?" Darren winced when he met Stiles' eyes. "Would you like me to call someone?"

"I need a copy of my statement."

Darren looked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "I'm sorry, the payment will take a few days to clear. Can you come back next week?"

Stiles grabbed hold of the counter separating him from the clerk. "Look, this is gonna sound kinda stupid, but what payment? I just got here."

Darren wheeled his chair back to the wall of files and extracted a manila envelope. "Here is the receipt. I was told to place a duplicate into the file for you." He took out the receipt and a small envelope. "This was left as well."

Stile took both and looked at the receipt. "You're sure this is mine?"

"It was paid on the Stilinski account." Darren offered him a small smile. "I'm glad your relatives are finally chipping in. Maybe, if you get some time later, we could get some coffee or something. I know you said you were busy before, but I was hoping…"

Stiles swallowed around the barbed wire in his throat. "I'll get back to you," he said. The answer was no, but he wasn't going to piss the clerk off a second time, particularly when there was clearly a clerical error being made in his favor. Stiles didn't have any relatives willing to speak to him. "I gotta go," he told Darren. 

The man smiled and waved. "See you around."

Stiles took his papers to room 417 and sat in the chair beside his father's bed. He could tell the origins of the letter by the cologne that wafted from it.

_Consider this back payment for services rendered. If you continue to provide exemplary service, you may consider yourself gainfully employed for my organization. Clean yourself up and be prepared for work at the usual time this week. I'll expect you to bring your belongings with you._

He sat, staring at the letter for minutes, his attention occasionally shifting to the steady rhythms of the heart monitor and respirator. He had options. He could take the two months of paid care Peter'd given him and use it to recover and build up his monetary stores. He wouldn't have to take the miserable and risky jobs he'd been forced to do that month, the jobs that now meant nothing. He could go back to sleeping in a crowded, condemned house that leaked when it rained and groaned when the wind blew too strong. Or…he could hide away in a motel and be Peter's rent boy. He could have a roof and a shower. He could save his money for whenever Peter got tired of him or, more likely, whenever he couldn't take Peter's demands anymore.

The aches in his arms and legs told him he was an idiot. The soreness in his ass told him Peter was a liar and would ultimately betray him. The steady beep and whir behind him told him he had two months more than he thought he had when he woke up that morning, and he would do what he had to do, no matter the cost.


End file.
